Dust Of Snow
by Wayfarer
Summary: Short story: While in Gondor, Rohan’s new king goes on a rare ride beyond her walls, and finds his mood lightened by an encounter with a raven and a lady. Fluff, 500 words


**DISCLAIMER**

Standard disclaimers apply. I write for self-amusement and am no Tolkien scholar, so any questions, comments, please send an email or simply leave a review here. I will gladly respond and correct errors that crop up. Thank you.

**SUMMARY**

Short story: While in Gondor, Rohan's new king goes on a rare ride beyond her walls, and finds his mood lightened by an encounter with a raven and a lady. (Fluff, 500 words)

Based in part on the events following the WAR of and on the narrative concerning Rohan in LotR's appendix A.

(Constructive criticism welcome.)

RATING: G. (Non-slash, non-language). GENRE: General.

**ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS**

A big "Thank You!" to _**Aerenka**_, who first introduced musie and I to the titular inspiration on a fabulous _Karl Urban_ forum. This story was first conceived as a response to the "_Dust of Snow_" challenge she created.

"_Dust of Snow_" is a poem by _Robert Frost (1874- 1963)_.

As ever, appreciation must go to _**Avallon**_ for her thoughtful feedback while we distilled and condensed this, our first effort at writing _short_: always fabulous to have a story nazi peeking in on the writing. ;-)

**NOTES**

11 Oct 2004: Uploaded.

02 Oct 2009: Edited and revised.

* * *

**DUST OF SNOW**

by _Wayfarer  
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)_

**Dust Of Snow - ROBERT FROST**

_The way a crow  
Shook down on me  
The dust of snow  
From a hemlock tree  
Has given my heart  
A change of mood  
And saved some part  
Of a day I had rued_

The hiss of sliding snow made me turned. As a king upon his throne, a crow sat high among gnarled boughs.

I swore.

Unaffected, wings spread and preening, the crow fixed a beady eye downward with impudent pleasure, and again shook down fine white dust.

'_Snow from the crow brings woe_,' was my uncle's favoured saying. But he is dead, and I thrust upon his throne.

A fancy I faced a messenger struck; I looked it in the eye. In its bold black stare a reply seemed written.

Faraway, light shards cast from the hidden sky piercing _Ered Nimrais_ recalled bloodless flesh of mortal wounds, shuddering memories of my dying uncle.

'My lord Éomer!'

I turned, awkward for the stiffened leather. A palfrey was struggling up the slope. Firefoot answered, and tossed his head, resisting his shortened reins.

I drew a cold breath. 'Here!' Then remembering decorum, I put away my thoughts and added: 'My lady.'

I considered the rider on the approaching palfrey. A highborn woman, daughter of the Swan lord, but still one among the many highborn ladies at Gondor's court.

I dismounted.

'Your warhorse, he does not run,' Lothiriel complained. 'He flies!'

'It is my fault, I forget Snowflower is not a horse of the Mark.'

She drew abreast. 'Nor I a daughter born to the saddle.'

Firefoot protested and the cursed crow cawed, a ringing coarse retort seemingly in my stead.

Laughing, she patted Firefoot. 'What war hero out of the north could resist a run through the snow? I forgive you,' she said with a curious side-long glance.

As if given the signal in an intricate dance, Snowflower danced away. I laughed: 'It seems Snowflower thinks otherwise!'

Lothiriel smiled and coaxed her near again. 'She is merely spirited.' To me she said, 'I am glad you found us, but I would like to not get lost again please.' Another fleeting glance.

Before I was aware, I had grabbed the ungloved hand she was stretching forth with a quick grace. Just as swift, I released her.

Ruefully, she rubbed the reddened mark. 'Not every shadow brings harm.' Then, stretching forth again, she dusted the snow off my shoulder with care, and smiled.

_What would they make of another foreign queen? _I frowned at the irrelevance of that stray thought.

I shook my head and returned her warm regard. 'Come, the search party is beyond that grove, you will not be lost again today.'

The sun had drawn the veiling clouds. And the crow was gone. Perhaps it would not be such a bad day after all.

'Daydreaming, my lord? Look, the day turns, too fine for fantasies,' She leaned forward, her warm breath caressing my nape, as a gentle smile curved her lips.

Then loudly, she shouted: 'We'll race you to the camp!'

Already her laughter was fading.

I leapt onto Firefoot. 'Fly! Fly or we shall rue this day forever!'

Already in pursuit, he snorted in derision. I laughed into the raising dust of snow.


End file.
